


Anything

by objectlesson



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, sex like fighting, vulcan angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk knows it doesn’t matter if Spock wants him. The fact he does not want to want him will always win out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I ever wrote in the Star Trek fandom. I thought it would be the last, but I was awfully wrong. I just love that Captain Kirk too much. This never happened and I don’t own them!

Sometimes, Spock shakes. It is subtle, like all things are with Spock, but Kirk notices. As he does all things about Spock. 

He’s not sure when it began, because he thinks he may have picked up tremors of it in his internal Richter scale before the times he was sure he saw it, his needles jumping ever so slightly and blurring the line before they leapt into messy arches of ink. There was the time in Spock’s quarters, when Kirk first thought Spock had his hand behind his back and white-knuckled around a stylus to keep himself from striking out at him, hurting him. 

Now he knows it was to keep from fucking him. 

He tells himself on the days he’s self-deprecating and unsure of what any of this is worth, that Spock was always shaking in those couple of days, because he was trying to keep from fucking _everyone_. On the days he feels invincible, he knows this is a lie. 

He knows on those days that there is something in Spock’s devotion to him that is primal and wanting. Because Spock is half human, and even a half, even a _sixteenth_ of Kirk’s all human self would be primal and wanting for Spock. All it takes if a fraction of humanity to drive want. 

However, he also knows that even if that want _is_ there, it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because Spock will always let the other half win out. If it exists, it will be ground to nonexistence by Spock’s want to not want. Kirk knows, because he saw his white knuckles on the stylus. 

Still, even before that incident, and ever since, there’s been the shaking. Sometimes when Kirk is flushed and sweating from battle, his uniform hanging off in places and his skin bruised and bleeding but showing through. Sometimes it is when one or both of them have almost died, and by some miracle are left instead holding themselves up braced on the other’s forearms, eyes locked. Sometimes it is when he merely walks by. Kirk passes, and sometimes, Spock’s hands are no longer still.

Sometimes it is when he makes an order that involves self sacrifice, and he can see Spock’s hands tremble where they are clenched before him. He wonders if they are shaking because Spock is stopping himself from the illogic of offering to be the one who goes instead. Or maybe it is just the notion of Kirk gone, in any way. 

This particular time Spock begins to shake, they are amidst a game of chess. Kirk is kicked back in his chair, boots propped against the leg of the table and back slouching from its usual illusion of forever straightness. Spock is across from him, long pale fingers resting against his chin. 

“...rook to queen’s level one,” Kirk says with false confidence after a long moment of consideration. He’s already lost the game, several moves ago, but they’re going through the motions anyway. After he says it, he looks up through his lashes at Spock, a wincing innocent look. It says _you got me, are you going to rub it in?_

He expects to miss Spock’s gaze, not even meet his eyes which he suspects are already locked onto the tri-level chess board, calculating with ease how to take Kirk’s queen. He expects to hear _checkmate_ and nothing else. 

Instead, his eyes fall on Spock’s, which are dark and narrowed and very, very prudent in their focus on him. Spock is looking at him with calculation, like he were a game of chess. His stomach drops in a way he often tries to but can never control, and his tongue flicks out nervously to lick his lips. He has always known that he and Spock regard each other with much more time and severity than they regard anyone else they know, but that does not stop him from viscerally responding every time it happens. 

He looks and looks, like his eyes are drinking. Everything about Spock right now seems tense and black and blown open, the fragments of an explosion coalescing into one solid perfect thing opposite him. 

Then, he notices the fingers pressed to Spock’s chin begin, almost imperceptibly, to shake. 

Ice is in his veins. All of the other times, save for the time with the stylus, there were other crew members around, other people who could have been the impetus for the tremor on Spock’s body. But there is no one here right now in the rec room, it’s three am and Kirk wanted to be alone which meant he wanted to be with Spock, who is forever wakeful. 

Without thinking and because he feels entitled to most things, Kirk’s hand is shooting across the table before he can stop himself, fist tightening around Spock’s wrist. The chess board wobbles, unsure it can stand with such force and adrenaline surrounding it. 

Kirk can feel the slowest, steadiest pulse under his fingers for nearly a second, and then Spock has wrenched away from his grip, which must be weak. “Captain,” is what he says. His voice is nearly hoarse, a subtle hoarseness because all things are subtle with Spock. 

“Goddamnit, Spock,” Kirk grinds out, standing and pacing behind the table, pushing his hands through his hair.

“Captain, I--”

Kirk whips around to face Spock, his hands forming fists on either side of him. “I know what you want. I can see it, see it plain as day! And you know I would let you. You _know._ But it is _you_ , who will not let yourself. Look at you.” Kirk spits out. He sounds angry but he is not. Even though he is tortured by the hand of Spock’s logic, even though he curses the word Kohlinar, he can’t be angry because he loves Spock, and he loves all of him. He loves him not only with his logic, but _for_ his logic, because it makes him who he is. 

“I. Cannot,” Spock says in staccato notes. He is staring at the ground, his whole body beginning quake like something fragile caught in a storm. 

Kirk paces to the side of the table Spock is on, and Spock backs away, stuck against the wall and shuddering uncontrollably. “Please, Jim. Please.”

“Please _what_?” Kirk begs, stunned by what the sound of his own first name does to him when is comes from Spock’s lips. “You. This is not logical, Spock. It is not logical to will oneself away from something so overwhelming...how can you say it’s logical to put yourself through this?! You _want_ it like _I want it_. You can control your mind, Spock, but your body is-” Kirk is silenced by the fire in Spock’s eyes when he looks up at him, a dangerous darkness spilling into the air around them and making it tight. 

“You do not understand,” he says curtly, his lips curling in something close to fury. His shoulders are hard and tight beneath his uniform, straining with the force of keeping himself against the wall. “It is _not_ merely a question of logic, captain. I know you. Find me so simple, but..” his voice struggles out of him, as if his teeth are clenched too tightly to talk through. “ But. My resistance. is more than that. I am protecting you.” 

“Protecting me?!” Kirk yells, and nearly drops to his knees, yearning to fist into the fabric of Spock’s shirt and bring it to his teeth. “Protecting me from what?! Do you think that I expect you to be something you’re not? That I expect you to be an emotional lover?” 

“That’s not it,” Spock barks impatiently, closing his impossibly dark eyes again, cutting Kirk off from the fire. “You do not understand. Hurting you is a concern, yes, but not in that manner,” he stammers out, uncharacteristically inelegant. 

There is a familiar shame in Spock’s voice, a pained hesitance that Kirk remembers from Pon Farr. He reaches out in front of him, into the space between their bodies, but does not touch Spock, in fear. “What? What is it?” 

“When. It...it is not my lack of passion that you should be frightened of. It is what I am capable of doing to you, with passion.” Spock drops his head, the tendons in his neck pulsing beautifully under a sheen of sweat. 

Kirk wants desperately to save him from the agony of his restraint; he wants so very badly to push Spock’s back into the wall and fit their bodies together. Instead he takes a deep breath, attempting to remember through the fog of want what exactly it was that Spock told him about Vulcan biology, what he told him about every seven years, boiling blood, and the violence of relenting to it. 

“I thought that was only during Pon Farr,” Kirk breathes. 

“Pon Farr is only when it _needs_ to happen. It can happen at anytime. You see, Captain, it is not that I do not acknowledge my want. It is that my want is so great, it can destroy you.” His voice drops into a hushed broken thing at the end of his sentence and his gaze cuts up to Kirks collarbone, his cheekbone, but not his eyes. “That is why you must step away.” 

Kirk is dumbfounded for a moment, standing so still the force of his breath moves him, the beat of his own heart makes him throb. He imagines all the force of his own love, destructive and reeling, coming from Spock’s stronger body, Spock’s stronger will. It frightens him, but of course, he still wants it. He thinks of Spock’s shaking hand behind his back and white-knuckled around a stylus to keep himself from striking out at him, hurting him. 

He thought it was to keep from fucking him.

Now he knows those are the same thing. 

“Spock, I want it anyway,” Kirk says, which is the truth. He is inching closer, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of Spock’s body, which is radiating a significant amount of warmth for a vulcan. “You have to believe me, in spite of its lack of logic.” 

And it _is_ the truth. Kirk wants, and has wanted, all of Spock in anyway he can have it for as long as they’ve served together. He’s known it with the certainty of his loyalty to starfleet, with the certainty of _breathing_. He wants, and he wants it all. 

“Jim. You are a human. Your body is not built to...” And Spock is visibly in pain with how impossible it is to stop himself, and he throws his head back, brow creased through over and over again and the apple in his throat bobbing. 

“I want. It anyway. Your love, your rage, your passion, your cock. _Anything_. Anything,” the last, muffled _ing_ out of Kirk’s mouth is smothered to nonexistence by Spock’s lips. And they are there for a moment, cool and wet and insistent against the scalding plush of Kirk’s mouth before they are replaced with teeth. 

Spock bites him hard, hard enough to elicit a startled sound from Kirk, but then he’s licking the sting away, mouth open and moving like he’s been starved for this for the whole of his life. Their arms grip one another with the intent to bruise and break, hands clawing desperately at and under clothing. 

He was not lying when he warned it could destroy Kirk. Spock is throwing him around as easily as if he were a ragdoll, against every wall, to the floor, back up again. It’s been seconds but Kirk’s bones are already aching, his elbow is bruised and he may have a black eye. He’s hard though, hard and hot between their longing bodies and still wanting more. More pain, more of anything, as long as Spock keeps touching him. 

Breaking away and letting his head fall back, Kirk gives into the sway of things, the terrible wonderful pressure of Spock’s wanting mouth attacking his neck. His stomach is dipping and writhing every other beat of his heart, creating a mess inside of him. He puts his hands in Spock’s hair, on the back of his neck, on the small of his back, on the side of his face. Anywhere he can reach, all real and flushed green, and Kirk is nearly sobbing with disbelief. 

Spock pushes a knee between Kirk’s legs, a hand moving to rub hungrily at the bulge in his pants. There are broken noises coming from him as he touches Kirk, and a brief moment of stillness before he slams Kirk’s body down onto the rec table, sweeping the chess board and all its respective pieces to the ground with a clatter. He pins him there, impossibly strong and eyes heavy and black with lust. 

“You are so exquisite,” he rasps, the words catching in the humid air between their swollen-mouthed kisses. There’s an almost tender moment when Spock’s thumb slides across the wet slick of Kirk’s lower lip, but then it’s gone and dissolving between thrusts and grinds and the sound of ripping fabric. 

Kirk is not even sure how Spock gets his clothing off, but it hurts. He is very suddenly naked on the table with blood in rivulets down his back, seeping from valleys cut by Spock’s nails. He groans helplessly, pushing his willing body up against Spock’s, loving the way his cock rubs against unrelenting flesh. 

Spock’s fist encircles him, squeezing and pulling so tight it aches. Kirk holds on to Spock’s hard, rippling shoulders, wrapping his legs around his waist to bring him ever closer. They’re kissing again, breathlessly, Spock’s tongue chokingly deep in Kirk’s mouth sweeping the surface of his teeth as if he’s trying to break him apart. He’s torn out of his uniform somehow. Kirk is moved to shuddering, almost-coming overwhelm at how real and perfect Spock’s skin is beneath his palms, and they pull their mouths apart with a wet sound, needing to taste all the skin they can reach. 

“Make me come,” Kirk chokes out brokenly. “Please.” 

It doesn’t take much. The mere idea of Spock’s hands on him is enough when he’s alone, so the reality of it when they’re together is shattering him. Spock’s long fingers are not skilled but it doesn’t matter, they are there and they belong to Spock so with a few more jerks of his elegant sloping wrist, Kirk is spilling onto his hand. 

“Exquisite,” Spock says again, before his hand is in his mouth, and Kirk has to look away because the beauty is too much. 

He can feel the heat of Spock’s dick pressing needily against his inner thigh, and if he was capable of moving under the weight of the urgent and longing body above him, he would move to see it, touch it, suck it, anything. He’s spent countless nights alone in his quarters with his own dick in his hand, jerking himself off to imagining the cooler skin, the green tint, the complete _difference_ of what it would feel like to touch Spock there, and that way, breaking his perfect composure and seeing him undone. 

Spock thrusts against him. The jagged line of this throat is thrown back in ecstasy, and he says something beautiful and incoherent in Vulcan, mumbling and beside control, beside himself 

“Oh God,” Kirk moans, stomach turning as he watches Spock flush, so moved. He is lost and in love, anchored by the weight on his chest and the almost unbearable burn of cuts in his back and on his sides, valleys of crimson through golden skin. He slides against his own blood and come on the rec table, skin alive with the friction. 

Spock’s eyes snap open, and he suddenly grips his hands around Kirk’s neck, thumbs pressing into his throat enough to cut off his airway. Kirk does not struggle, just gazes back with soft brown eyes, his mouth torn open and bleeding down his chin, seed on his quaking thighs. 

“Jim,” Spock breathes, thrusting his dick against the skin of Kirk’s abdomen, straddling him and holding him down with his body. “Jim.” 

Then Kirk feels Spock’s come paint his stomach in ribbons, heat and wet and everything he’s wanted for longer than he’s been watching Spock ‘s hands shake. Sparks of white are closing in on his vision, and he cannot breathe, but he’s not afraid. He thinks he can hear Spock’s voice hoarse and reedy around the word _mine_ through the blood pounding in his ears, but he’s not sure. Then the hands are gone from his throat, allowing air to rush back inside of his bruised windpipe, and it feels like he’s just been saved from drowning. 

After a few moments of breathing in labored tandem, the weight on Kirk’s chest is gone, replaced by the sounds of Spock sliding off of him. Kirk opens his eyes, reaching out and gripping Spock’s forearms to hold him in place. “Stay,” he wheezes. 

Spock looks back at him calculatedly again, the green flush receding from his skin and leaving him merely pale. He says nothing, and something twinges in Kirk’s chest. He searches Spock’s eyes for shame, regret, even uncertainty, but finds only traces of things too subtle to name with words. 

“Please don’t tell me this is the only time I get to have you,” Kirk finally says, voice quiet. 

It is a long while before the hard angles in Spock’s face finally soften, and his hand moves to rest, unsure but wanting, to Kirk’s hairline. They regard each other as they often do, and as most friends do not, until Spock eventually says “I was not able to hold on long enough to be inside of you. So therefore, it would be illogical not to repeat the act.” 

Kirk’s face slackens into a smile, and he allows his hand to creep under Spock’s, still slightly trembling. Their index and middle fingers cross and touch in a Vulcan kiss, and Spock drops his forehead to Jim’s. 

“I intend to take you, Captain,” he says in a low voice, and Kirk responds with

“Anything you want.”


End file.
